


Sleepover

by emmer_gency



Category: Birds of Prey (And the Fantabulous Emancipation of One Harley Quinn) (2020)
Genre: F/F, Friends to Lovers, Post-Canon, also road safety violation (dont try this at home), and we love that, but like friends to lovers speedrun, officer do i have to wear a helmet if giving it to my friend gets me laid, rating and tags all subject to change btw, this whole fic is dinah simping it up for helena
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-07
Updated: 2020-03-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:01:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23052124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmer_gency/pseuds/emmer_gency
Summary: It's not like Dinah doesn't realise she's got it bad for Helena; she knows that all too well, thank you very much. The problem is, what the hell do you do about it when it's right there in your face, at work, at home, in your kitchen and in your bed? And how do you keep Harley Quinn from unintentionally ruining all of it?
Relationships: Helena Bertinelli/Dinah Lance
Comments: 37
Kudos: 225





	1. Harley Quinn; Accidental Wingman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a girls night out with the gang, Dinah and Helena find themselves lingering at the restaurant when Harley, Cass and Renee have gone home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey homos this is my first (publicly posted) fic but that doesn't mean you have to be nice to me! go ahead and be evil, ladies!

“Does that sweet bike of yours do Uber drop offs?”

Dinah has met a lot of people in her lifetime, more-so in her line of work, but she has never seen a woman look as utterly perplexed as Helena Bertinelli currently does, sitting opposite her in the restaurant booth they share.

“What?” Helena says, her lanky arms awkwardly glued to her sides, “Why would the drop offs be “uber”, what’s special about them?”

God, don’t laugh, don’t laugh, don’t laugh, Dinah repeats in her head as she takes an emergency-pretend-sip of an already empty glass. When she feels brave enough to do so, she looks back at Helena and notices the little crease between her eyebrows that appears when the world simply doesn’t make sense to her. Ever since Dinah first discovered it, she’d been looking for ways to confuse Helena just enough to bring it out. It’s just so adorable she can’t help herself.

“Uber, like the service.”

“The uber-service? Excellent service?”

Dinah continues to successfully suppress her laughter, but feels her face betray her as it splits into a cheek-cramping grin. Helena isn’t smiling at all, and although that’s the default, Dinah can tell she’s genuinely lost.

“It’s an app.” she says, and Helena’s silence makes her feel she should keep talking, “On your phone? It’s like a cab on your phone.” 

Nice going, Dinah, confuse the woman further by introducing entirely foreign and frankly sci-fi-esque concepts mid-explanation. “Forget it,” she continues, “I’m just tryin’ to cop a ride on your motorcycle because Harley took my car. I think she got Cass to yoink my keys when they left.”

“Sure,” Helena says, “but I don’t know where you live.”

“Well, ya see, I was planning on just telling you that,” Dinah allows herself a giggle, but she’s never laughing at Helena, she’s simply and truthfully charmed by her lack of social graces. “Not everyone is as “uber-private” as your mysterious ass.”

“Are you making fun of me?”

“Little bit, yeah.”

A stranger would have missed it, no doubt, but almost immediately Dinah clocks the small smile tugging at Helena’s lips, likely against her will, but visible nevertheless. It makes Dinah’s stomach flip and jump like a show-dog, and she runs her thumb in deliberate circles on the glass in her hand, hoping to alleviate the severe symptoms of infatuation disorder she’s currently experiencing. That shit is honestly starting to feel like it’s terminal. Dinah returns the smile when she regains the small amount of composure she can manage. 

“Let’s go,” Helena says. She’s laughing too, now, and Dinah has no idea how she’ll continue to keep all of this joy and affection inside a body that’s beginning to feel way too small for any of it. Soon it will start to leak, she’s pretty sure, and then what will she do?

-

Gotham feels like an entirely different city when it’s flying past and disappearing behind Helena’s motorcycle. Dinah would love to convince herself it’s the speed that makes the difference, but the comforting smell of Helena’s leather trench coat filling up her nostrils makes it difficult to justify any excuse she might be able to come up with.

Before they left the restaurant, they’d spent maybe ten minutes arguing about helmet safety as Helena, not expecting any passengers, only had her own helmet with her. In the end, she came out victorious and gave Dinah her helmet even though Helena was the one so very passionate about protection. Had Dinah been about 30% less sober, she would have burst into tears right there in the parking lot. The moment Helena was focused on the road, Dinah had opened the helmet’s visor just to press her nose into her shoulder, and as soon as they got off the bike she was going to be well and truly ashamed, she’d promised herself that. 

For now, though, she shuts her eyes and smiles, her arms clinging tightly to Helena’s waist. Since she isn’t wearing a helmet, Dinah can smell Helena’s hair, too, as the wind whips it around. It smells of nondescript shampoo that probably costs no more than 99₵, and somehow in this moment, a frugal millionaire is the sexiest thing in the world to her.

They turn the corner down Dinah’s street, her distinctly green apartment door barely starting to enter her field of vision. Disappointment floods her system like a cold shower when she realises she’ll have to let go of Helena soon. Should she invite her inside? No, Helena would find that ridiculous, they just had dinner and drinks, why would she repeat the evening’s events alone with Dinah? She’s not that into you, dipshit, her analytical brain would spiral. 

On the road, Helena hits something; a rock, maybe, or an uneven chunk of asphalt, Dinah has no idea, but the front of the bike staggers, threatening to tilt. Helena’s body tenses underneath Dinah’s arms as she attempts to steer it to safety. She skids to a halt by the curb, and the absence of the engine roaring gives way to the unmistakable sound of a tire rapidly deflating.

When Dinah hops off the seat, Helena is already stalking the bike in circles like a wild animal. She squats down and yanks something out of the front tire, but in the dirty-yellow light from the sparse street lamps Dinah can’t make out what it is until Helena chucks it at the ground so hard it bends.

“Who the FUCK leaves their piece of shit screwdriver in the middle of the ROAD!”

Dinah leaps forward, wrapping herself around Helena’s torso to prevent any more commotion.

“Ohoh whoa, hey, Crossbow Killer, let’s try not to wake up the whole neighbourhood, hm?” she says, voice light and easy; Helena is looking for something to destroy, she can tell. Before she lets go, Dinah checks the apartment windows behind them for any signs of life, lights turning on or latches being unhooked, but they seem to be the only two people awake. “It’s just a flat tire, we’ll get it fixed in the morning.”

“Fine.” Helena says, body stiff and rigid until Dinah steps away, “I’ll be back here tomorrow to pick it up.”

“What are you on?” Dinah laughs, “You’re not walking home past midnight, just stay the night, you nutcase.”

The apples of Helena’s cheeks turn visibly red, unmistakably so even under the dull street light. Dinah doesn’t know what to do with her hands and shoves them deep into her pockets where her fingers twist and knot.

“Oh,” Helena says quietly, “of course, yeah. Thanks.”

“Sleepover!” Dinah says and holds out her fist for Helena to bump. 

There’s a delay in her reaction, as Dinah expects, but Helena gets it eventually and knocks their knuckles together. “Sleepover.” 

Her voice is indifferent, but she’s smiling nonetheless and Dinah is overwhelmed by fondness, laughter bubbling up in her throat and spilling out into the otherwise silent street.

“It is so damn cute when you do that.”

As Helena struggles with the compliment, Dinah rummages through her pockets looking for her keys until she remembers why she hitched a ride to her own apartment in the first place. Of course Cass took the whole bundle. A pickpocket whose semi-legal guardian is Harley fuckin’ Quinn doesn’t have time to consider that maybe Dinah is a normal person who keeps her car keys and house keys on the same chain. She kicks a trash can, denting it, and the lid tumbles off and crashes into the adjacent trash can.

“What happened to not waking up the entire neighbourhood?” Helena asks.

“Cass took my keys. We’re locked out.”

“Don’t you have a spare?”

In hopes that she forgot to lock the door earlier today when she left, Dinah tries the handle, but it is definitely locked. She opts for a few non-committal kicks to the door frame.

“I did,” she says, patting down her hair for a pin, “but I lost it.”

Helena nods. She’s still standing out in the street like she has to be invited onto the doorstep. Her trench coat screams vampire, anyway, so it might as well be the case.

“I can kick it down for you,” she suggests, her tone so casually formal, so distinctly Helena that it makes Dinah laugh. That is, until she realises it’s a genuine proposal.

“Uh- no thanks, I got it,” Dinah mumbles through one half of a hairpin that she’s holding between her teeth. Her fingers pull at the other half, straightening the whole thing out, and she jabs it into the lock. 

Within an alarmingly short amount of time, Dinah is standing in the hallway of her apartment, and it definitely has a lot more to do with the quality of the lock than her skills as a burglar. Mentally she makes it an objective to call her locksmith tomorrow.

Before she can invite her inside, Helena crosses the doorstep and shuts the door behind them, disproving the theory that she’s a fanged creature of the night. She’s still pale, dark and brooding, though, but without the bloodlust and immortality; at least as far as Dinah is aware.

When Dinah turns around she’s standing face to face with Helena in the already narrow hall, and the dark space now feels suffocatingly small as none of them say a word. The steel toed tips of Helena’s combat boots gently knock into her own shoes, but she’s not sure who took the small step forward. Reaching blindly behind her, she misses the wall a few times trying to find the light switch, and when she does manage to flick it on Helena is facing the opposite direction, removing her jacket and unlacing her boots.

God, it’s gonna be one hell of a long sleepover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my fucking god these bitches gay! good for them tho good for them.
> 
> i don't know where this fic is going but lord help me these gals will have s*x eventually


	2. Harley Quinn; The Icarus of Wingmen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinah and Helena watch half of a stupid movie, things get homoerotic, and Harley tries her best, maybe. Also featuring WWE?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is a little longer than ch. 1 bc uhhhh im gay and could not stop! enjoy >:)

Dinah has no idea what movie they’re watching, and by the looks of it, Helena doesn’t either.

“This shit sucks,” she says with a sigh so heavy it borders on a stifled yawn. She leans her head on Helena’s shoulder, wonders when they moved so close together on the couch that she could do that without effort.

“Yeah, I don’t like it,” Helena says, “what’s it called?”

“No idea, that’s why it sucks. I only watch good movies, so if I don’t know it, it’s probably shit.”

It’s not entirely true. She doesn’t consider herself a film buff to any degree, usually sees a flick and then forgets about it two days later. If she’s honest with herself she’s just trying to make Helena laugh, and it works as her shoulder shakes with laughter underneath Dinah’s cheek.

“I’ve probably seen less than ten movies in my lifetime,” Helena confesses, amusement still colouring her words. 

Dinah lifts her head to look at her face; sometimes she really can’t tell when Helena is joking. “For real?” she asks, hoping she sounds curious rather than judgemental, because she truly doesn’t give a shit if Helena has seen five or five hundred movies, as long as she’s here, watching this garbage one with her right now.

“Uh, yeah. Is that weird?” Helena is looking at her as well now, and her smile looks like a flustered apology as the tips of their noses come too close for Dinah to ignore. 

“For someone with your upbringing, I think ten is a solid number,” she says. Not without effort she hoists herself off the couch and onto her feet, out of Helena’s warm presence, and feels ridiculous when she finds herself missing the contact immediately.

“Do you want some wine?” she asks, heading for the kitchen. While she waits for Helena’s answer she digs through the cabinets, quickly realising there’s only one clean glass left, and that it isn’t even a wine glass. When did she last do the dishes?

“Sure,” Helena says eventually and somehow in the kitchen with her now, making Dinah flinch. Okay, Helena is a trained assassin, a highly skilled one, too, but sneaking up on someone in their own kitchen is just plain uncalled for.

“Well, I only have this one glass,” she says, putting the glass on the counter, “and it’s boxed, not bottled. Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Helena shrugs and takes a seat at the counter, “I’m a bit of an Italian disgrace when it comes to wine, ‘cause I can’t really tell the difference.”

“I guess being trained to kick ass doesn’t leave much free time to go wine tasting,”

“Not really, no,” Helena laughs. 

Dinah turns the valve on the wine cask, filling up the glass. She nudges it towards Helena. “Ladies first,” she says, sitting down opposite her at the counter. 

Helena’s slender fingers are captivating in the way they wrap so firmly around the glass before she takes a sip.

Over by the sink where she left it before, Dinah’s phone goes off. As she goes to grab it, she feels an urge to apologise to Helena, as if they’re on a date and she needs to take a business call outside. She doesn’t apologise, though. That would be insane. Right? 

The screen lights up with a message from… Oh, perfect. Just what she needed. Input from her “BFF”.

HARL!!🔶💙  
  
**Harley:** did u get home?? sry abt the car lol  
  
**Dinah:** Yea im home. Would love the car back tho  
  
**Harley:** ya ya tmrw or whenvr  
  


Dinah almost rolls her eyes. Yeah, sorry about the car, and the house keys, and the frankly inconvenient time she’s chosen to bother her.

She leaves Harley on read, but puts her phone in her pocket this time, because leaving Harley on read means there’s another text coming within the next two minutes, tops. As reluctant as she is to admit it, there are days where Dinah doesn’t mind a double, triple or sometimes quadruple text from Harley. It’s like a small, excitable terrier has learned how to use an iPhone, and who wouldn’t find that vaguely endearing? 

The downside is that the messages are almost never related to one another, and trying to follow her train of thought is like solving a crossword puzzle for people who hate themselves.

Right now, Dinah doesn’t have time for crossword puzzles. She lifts her and Helena’s shared wine glass to her lips and takes a sip, her purple lipstick staining the rim. Helena smiles at her, but doesn’t say anything, just takes another sip of wine. They do that for a while, drinking little by little back and forth, neither saying a word, and Dinah’s face and neck grow hot as Helena consistently places her mouth on top of the growing amount of lipstick stains around the rim. Nothing about her demeanour acknowledges that it’s a deliberate choice, but for tonight Dinah can so easily convince herself that it is.

Just as it’s her turn again, her phone vibrates in her pocket, and she swears she could crush the glass with her fingers alone. Instead, she sets it down and unlocks her phone.

**Harley:** soooo what u up to gfriend??🙀  
  


Is it too late to get that bounty back on Harley’s stupid head?

**Dinah:** Getting wine drunk w/ bertinelli  
  
**Harley:** 👀??  
  
**Dinah:** Fuck off  
  


She lifts her eyes from the screen. They meet Helena’s right away, like she’s been waiting for Dinah to look up, but then in that way she always does, Helena averts her gaze to somewhere on the countertop.

**Dinah:** Nothing is happening anyway  
  
**Harley:** well DUHH cuz ur using ur fingers to text me🤪  
  


Were she religious, Dinah would be praying to whoever she hypothetically worships that none of Harley’s words were causing any outward display of emotion, lest Helena ask her anything related to this stupid conversation. But even if she does notice, she says nothing for now, just swirls the wine around at the bottom of the glass.

**Dinah:** Please stop saying words to me. Im turning off my phone  
  
**Harley:** go get her tiger!! 💪👅  
  
**Harley:** btw i kinda crashed ur car but good luck stud!!!!💋  
  


If Harley is expecting a reply, if she thinks Dinah is bluffing, she’s about to be disappointed. As she turns off her phone she puts it back where she initially left it, right by the sink, and returns to her seat opposite Helena at the kitchen island.

“Sorry,” she says, hoping Helena fills in the blanks of her apology, because she gets no further with it than a single word.

“It’s okay.” 

Helena’s smile is warm and pleasant. Dinah knocks back the last mouthful of wine, regretfully fast, but tries not to let it show.

“Was it Harley?” Helena asks. 

Dinah nods. It was Harley, alright. Harley Quinn, world’s worst wingman. Special ability: ruining the mood without even being in the room.

Helena’s soft expression turns apprehensive. “Sorry, I wasn’t snooping,” she says, “I just saw the amount of emojis and did the math.”

“It’s fine,” Dinah assures her and takes the empty glass to the sink. Only now does she feel the faint daze of alcohol having settled in her system, softening the edges of her vision and latching onto every emotion inside her, good, bad and ugly, as red wine is keen to do. 

It also makes her realise how completely bone-tired she is. “Turns out she didn’t just steal my car. She fucking crashed it, too.”

Something about the way Helena’s lips twitch makes Dinah think she’s trying not to laugh. She wants to laugh along, but she forgets to take her eyes off Helena’s mouth, and then forgets what was funny in the first place.

“Well,” Helena says, and Dinah reluctantly pulls her attention up to meet her eyes, “I’m going to the mechanic tomorrow to get a new tire, might as well make a date of it.”

“You mean a day?” Dinah asks, voice softer than she meant it to be. The intention is a friendly dig at Helena’s language mishap, but she allows herself to consider for a moment that maybe she's just afraid she’d misheard her. “Make a day of it?”

“Oh. Yeah.” Something comes over Helena’s face, something brief that looks like disappointment, maybe, and Dinah nearly misses it before it’s gone. Instead, it’s replaced with the familiar crease of confusion appearing between Helena’s eyebrows. “I just thought that was the saying, make a date of it.”

“It could be,” Dinah murmurs, the wine making her mouth brave but her eyes heavy with sleep, “a date, I mean.”

“A repair shop date…” Helena says slowly, incredulously, “That’s so hot.” 

Almost simultaneously they’re both in hysterics. Whether it’s the wine or the company Dinah has no idea; she knows it’s not funny on its own, thinks Helena probably knows it, too, but she never wants to stop laughing with her like this, leaning over the island counter in a fit, Helena’s arm clutching hers, faces so close her breath tickles her burning red cheek.

Once their laughter dies out they sit for a moment, catching their breath so delightfully out of sync, staring at one another. Joy is still visible in the crinkles by Helena’s eyes. Dinah wishes she had kissed her as they were laughing together, because courage would’ve been much easier to find amidst chaos and ecstasy than now, in this delicate silence so easily ruined.

Dinah’s gaze drifts from Helena’s face to the digital clock on the microwave behind her. 

“Fuck it’s, like, two in the morning,” she says with the confidence of someone who is perfectly able to make out the numbers on the clock; a club her wine-weary ass is not a member of, but she’s fairly certain the foremost number is 2, and the rest will have to remain a mystery. “I’ll go find you a toothbrush, you can pick out whatever you want from my closet.”

“Uhm, are you sure?” Helena asks, standing from her seat at the counter as Dinah does the same, “I can just sleep in this.”

“You’re gonna sleep in that leather get-up? Good luck with that, Undertaker.”

“It’s Huntress,” Helena objects, but Dinah is already in the bathroom, looking through her cabinets for a spare toothbrush, and absolutely not thinking about Helena as a professional wrestler. She already has the leather trench, she could easily wear it Undertaker-style with no shirt underneath and-

“Shit!” Dinah yelps. There’s a deep, clean cut stretching from the tip of her finger to the bottommost joint, and blood is slowly trickling down the length of it. Her thoughts rewind back about two days when she broke a hand mirror in the middle of the night and shoved the shards into the same cabinet she had been blindly digging through just now in search of a toothbrush.

She doesn’t hear her come in, but Helena is kneeling in front of her before she can think of a way to stop the bleeding herself, the look on her face a solid half and half of confusion and concern. As she cradles Dinah’s hand in her own, the blood runs warm and fast from her finger and into Helena’s palm.

“What did you do?” she asks. Dinah wants to be annoyed, wants to push her off and say she doesn’t need to be babied, this shit is like a paper cut to her, anyway, but still she shuts her eyes and sees them both in a heart-rending scene from a B-list action-thriller, where Helena holds her as she bleeds out in her arms from a gunshot to the abdomen.

“How drunk are you? We had the same amount of wine,” Helena says, the Helena sitting with her on the bathroom floor, not the one pressing her hand to a fatal bullet wound behind a flipped over truck on fire. Dinah opens her eyes.

“Not drunk, just… Mentally preoccupied,” Okay, somewhat drunk, but definitely more preoccupied than drunk.

“With what?” Helena asks. She wraps Dinah’s thumb in a towel, and then starts looking through cabinets and drawers, presumably for anything resembling a first-aid kit, “Preoccupied with what?”

She can’t possibly tell her. There’s no way she can, Dinah knows there’s just no way, because as soon as she starts to talk, she’s not going to be able to stop, and her words are going to spill everywhere, too quickly and too vast for her to clean them up in time.

So she says nothing; just wraps the towel tighter around her hand, head resting against the cabinet door below the sink.

“It’s okay,” Helena kneels down in front of her again, a small roll of white gauze in her hands, “you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.” She punctuates the last statement with a soft smile, the one that makes her look like a small cat, if small cats could smile, and carefully she removes the blood-soaked towel from her thumb.

“This is going to sting a bit,” she says, and Dinah shrugs like she doesn’t believe her. The disinfectant wipe is cool against her unscathed skin and seething hot against the cut; in other words, it stings like a bitch. Her eyes start to water and she almost rips her hand from Helena’s grasp, but then the pain dissipates and Helena is wrapping her thumb in soft gauze, sealing the bandage with medical tape, and it’s not so bad, after all.

“Told you it would sting.”

Dinah blinks back tears and shoves Helena in the shoulder with her non-injured hand, fighting the smile playing at her lips, “Don’t get smug, Bertinelli. I’ll kick your lanky ass any day.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” Dinah mumbles, accepting Helena’s hand to help her on her feet, “you won’t even have time to load a single arrow, it’ll happen so fast.”

“I’m terrified,” Helena says, rolling her eyes, “did you find a toothbrush?”

“Not yet, but it’s here somewhere.”

Caught up in her own little stunt, Dinah hadn’t actually noticed that Helena had managed to change into sleep clothes in the time it took her to not find a toothbrush and also slice her thumb open.

The short spaghetti strap top is tight around her midriff, just like the one in her Huntress uniform, but there’s no longer a pair of leather pants covering up most of her stomach. In fact, there’s not a damn thing covering any of it, as Helena is just in her own boxers. Maybe she didn’t finish getting dressed, or maybe, and it’s an embarrassingly hopeful maybe, she was going to stay like this.

Dinah is gawking. She should probably stop gawking. She stares herself down in the mirror instead, her own stupid reflection, with blood all over her arm and a dark blush starting from the neck and clawing its way to her cheeks.

“Is this it?” Helena asks beside her, startling her out of her thoughts. She’s holding up a purple toothbrush.

“Yep, all yours,” Dinah says and hands her a tube of toothpaste, “I’ll go, uh, change. Or whatever.”

With the upped difficulty thanks to her newly acquired affliction, she does eventually change into a t-shirt and her favourite pair of pyjama shorts. From the bedroom she can hear Helena brushing her teeth. The domesticity of it stirs something inside her, digs up feelings she’s too unfamiliar with to put words to, but it isn’t bad, she realises. She’s not sure what it is, but she knows what it isn’t; it isn’t scary, it isn’t dangerous and it doesn’t hurt. Maybe even the opposite. Maybe she knows exactly what it is.

For what’s probably the third time tonight, Helena sneaks up on Dinah in her own home, and honestly, it’s getting ridiculous, and Dinah is going to suffer some sort form of mild cardiac arrest sooner rather than later. How long had Helena been standing in the bedroom doorway, anyway?

“Sorry,” she says, “I’m just the quiet type, I guess.”

Dinah laughs. “You don’t gotta tell me that.” She wedges past Helena’s tall frame in the door and heads to the bathroom to brush her teeth. The purple toothbrush is sitting neatly beside her own yellow one in the little cup, as if it’s always been there, and is meant to be there.

This time she sees Helena coming in the mirror before she can ambush her again.

“Can I-” she starts, but then looks unsure, like she doesn’t actually know what she wants to ask. She clears her throat quietly. “Should I sleep on the couch?”

Dinah looks at her through the mirror, lazily brushing the same few teeth over and over, “If you want to, but it’s not very comfortable.”

“You’re okay with sharing your bed?”

“Of course,” Dinah says through a mouthful of toothpaste and holds her hair back, bending down to spit, “it’s a sleepover, remember?”

“I’ve never-”

“Been to one?” Dinah interrupts, “Nah, I figured, but it’s all good. You’ll get the hang of it.”

-

They don’t stay up gossiping, painting each other’s nails, doing each other’s hair, or whatever else TV says you’re supposed to accomplish at a sleepover. Instead they crawl silently into bed, at first with distance between them, but as they get comfortable the distance closes little by little, until they’re both too tired to feel weird about it. Helena is out first with Dinah following swiftly behind, her cheek resting comfortably against Helena’s bony shoulder and their arms interlaced between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dinah be like oh idk what this feeling is but i want our toothbrushes to be next to each other forever
> 
> its LOVE u stupid IDIOT!!


End file.
